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“Now,” she continued, pacing. “There are a few rules to ensure the safety of everyone here, including yourselves.” Briefly, she explained her expectations of conduct as well as the need for secrecy regarding their past. “You are not to discuss your former lives, not even with each other, lest someone overhear. If you need to talk to someone, let it be me. Anything you say in confidence will go no further than my ears.”
“But what if they asks us?” inquired Fanny.
She’s a sharp one, to be sure. “You will be taught how to deal with inquisitive people.” Beginning now. Folding her hands, she stopped in front of the girls. “Fanny, how do you think a prospective employer would react upon learning you are the daughter of a prostitute?”
Her inquiry went unanswered.
She knows when to remain silent. Her next statement was a harsh one, but it must be said. “They would never hire you—no matter your innocence, your education, or if you’d been raised in a ‘decent’ establishment. Your origin alone is enough to cause others to judge you and deem you unworthy. For this reason, as well as to prevent any dangerous past acquaintances learning their whereabouts, most of the girls here have changed their names. If you wish, you may also do this.”
Abigail’s chin trembled ominously. “I like the name me mum gave me.”
“You can keep it if you wish,” Jacqueline told her. “But I recommend that you at least change your surname. Pick something common and unrelated to your current surname or any previous associations.”
A sudden grin broke across Fanny’s face. “I’ve always ’ated me name. I’d like to be called Emma. As for me surname, what about Stone? There must be ’undreds of Stones in London.”
Jacqueline nodded. “Emma is common enough, and I think Stone a simple and solid surname. Very well, you will be known here as Emma Stone.”
Abigail pouted at her sister. “But if you change your name, I ’ave to change mine, too, or we won’t be sisters no more.”
Fanny—no, Emma—bent to look into her sibling’s eyes. “What about you keep Abigail for a middle name?”
“Don’t be daft,” retorted the younger girl. “Only rich people ’ave middle names.”
Again, the older one grinned. “Yeah, but nobody knows we ain’t fancy, does they? If not, then pick summat else, summat no one will know but us. What about that story Mum always used to tell us when we was little—the one about—”
“The princess an’ the magic rose?” Abigail’s face became thoughtful. “Rose. I could be Rose Abigail Stone.”
“I like that,” said Emma, putting an arm about her sister’s thin shoulders. “I think Mum would’ve liked it, too.”
After a long moment, the little girl nodded her head. “Rose, then. An’ you can call me Rosie—but only you.”
Good. It would be much easier to conceal them now. “Emma and Rose Stone. Excellent. Now, as I said, no one but me needs to know who you were or where you came from. As far as anyone else is concerned, you were sent here by an uncle after the loss of your widowed mother to poor health.”
“Yes, ’eadmistress,” said the two girls in unison.
Pleased, Jacqueline smiled. Quick learners, this pair. They will do well.
Chapter Three
September 19
Will looked around with satisfaction. Everything he’d need to present the appearance of a bachelor of modest means was packed into the crates lining the hall. Posing as a man who’d supposedly lived in his employer’s house and on his largesse for seven years, he could take very little in the way of furnishings. Granted, he wasn’t to actually live at the school, but he might have visitors. The illusion must be complete.
The familiar comforts of home would be waiting for him when he returned—all save the one he wouldn’t part with. He gave the back of his favorite armchair a fond thump. It’s certainly worn enough to pass inspection.
A nice raise in pay since working for Gonson hadn’t made him any less frugal. Already, he’d managed to save a tidy sum. As soon as this job was done he would make the move to a better part of London and propose to Miss Witherspoon. Mother, who’d arranged their introduction, had deemed the pretty, well-to-do tradesman’s daughter a “perfect match.” The three hundred pounds the girl would bring to her marriage had likely influenced this opinion somewhat, but the money mattered little to Will. His bride had only to be biddable, economical, and, above all, respectable.
Miss Witherspoon met all three qualifications, and Will knew he ought to be thrilled with such a good catch, but the best he could muster was acceptance. He was expected to marry, and marry, he would. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine setting up house with Miss Witherspoon, but in his mind’s eye, her blue eyes turned hazel, and her blonde hair darkened to brunette…
Trouvère. She’d been in his thoughts almost constantly since their encounter. What is she hiding at that school?
Chuckling to himself, he shook his head to clear it. He truly hoped Miss Witherspoon was as meek and tolerant as she seemed. His job demanded long and irregular hours, sometimes lengthy periods of time away from home, and a mind that was always on the case.
According to his mates, a constable’s wife was either content or contentious. He prayed for the former. Regardless, marrying her would make Mother happy, and a wedding would be at least two years off. He wanted to prove himself indispensable to Gonson and be well established within his fledgling organization before putting on the nuptial shackles.
But that was all in the unwritten future. For now, there was a job to do.
The last of the crates was loaded into the wagon bound for his new residence, a modest suite of rooms in Number 16 Dover Street, a short walk from the school. Though tiny, it was in a far better part of town than this. If he continued to impress Gonson, he might be able to one day afford a house there.
